


i get off (with a little help from my friends)

by FireLorde



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Caught in the Act, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation Interruptus, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Richie Tozier is His Own Warning, Unbetaed we die like men, eddie is kind of whiny, eddie says fuck like 3793 times, ehe heh heh, post-Jade of the Orient, whatever that means to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 09:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20945987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireLorde/pseuds/FireLorde
Summary: “Oh, holy shit, Eds. Need a little help with your dick?”Without lifting a finger, Eddie’s face somehow meets an invisible palm.“It’s Eddie, Rich,” he snapped, “and I don’t see why you’re so interested in helping me… In… In assisting me with….”“Helping you get your dick wet? Yeah, you know what they say about friends in need.”





	i get off (with a little help from my friends)

**Author's Note:**

> hey it fandom im like new here please take this as an offering reddie is very dear to my heart!!!

Eddie Kaspbrak was repressed.

No, no, he wasn’t. He was fine. He’d been married for five lovely years to Myra, the love of his everloving life, and in those five years, he’d had sex with her. He’d had sex with his darling wife  _ twice _ .

Once on their wedding night, and another time on New Year’s during their second year of marriage. She’d tried to initiate, he’d deflected. Eddie didn’t want to admit it, but he’d actually gone out drinking (Coke and grenadine) until the wee hours just to avoid the possibility of a sexual encounter with Mrs. Edward Kaspbrak.

And,  _ well _ . Needless to say, Eddie’s married trysts had been few and far between.

He tried to conjure up the last time he’d been intimate with his wife, but as soon as he started to think about seducing her, he’d felt his stomach twist into a massive knot.  _ Nope _ . It was a labor to imagine Myra in her flowing, carnation-pink nightgown, her fuschia-gloss lips pouted— probably just after screaming at him for doing  _ something _ wrong, setting one single, solitary toe out of her perfectly drawn lines. 

Per se, Eddie wasn’t a virgin who blushed at such horrifically sinful ideas as making love. He knew his way around missionary. He was rather keen on post-coital cuddling. And, for the record, he’d sucked a dick.

Something about college, something about Tony from Stats, that sophomore from Nevada, who’d looked at little freshman Eddie hungrily, like he’d never been looked at before. Tony from Stats who’d taken him to Pietralli’s pizza for a “date”, then kissed him in the car with Snapple still on his breath. Tony from Stats, who touched him like he wished he could touch himself. Tony from Stats, who he blew after a midterm, and Tony from Stats, who’d ditched him for another factory-fresh naive twink halfway between then and Christmas break.

That was the past, though, and there was no use dwelling on it. The present wasn’t much better, though. Every time Myra had begged Eddie for anything remotely romantic, he’d deflected it with the grace and skill of a professional soccer player. 

So, what? It wasn’t a crime to have only had sex with your wife  _ twice _ . Besides-- hands could be nice. The trouble, though, was that every time Myra was out at Book Club with Sharon and Cheryl and the rest of her nitpicking, gossipy friends, Eddie would grab his laptop. He’d grab his laptop, and do a sweep over the room to make sure no one was barging in at the ungodly hour of 8:34 P.M. He’d open it, type in his password with shaking fingers, and mousepad over his emails, with a familiar pit in his stomach as he hit “New Incognito Window”.

Yet every time he watched those  _ carnalities _ , those  _ inappropriate movies _ (Myra would refer to them as such), he found his mind wander back to things he wished he could forget, barely paying attention to the video he’d been half-watching. And somehow, he found a few fingers from his right hand curled in his ass, his hips helplessly rutting against nothing as he tried to imagine what it would be like to get fucked, and good, for  _ once _ in his goddamn life. He’d finish in his fist, the bottom of his t-shirt sticky, and stumble to the laundry room to do some impromptu laundry (he’d been neglecting the load of lights sitting in their very neat and tidy closet, now that he thought about it). So, down he’d go to the laundry room, regret bubbling up from his chest, shoveling button-ups, socks, and t-shirts into a washer, trying to hide the guilt on his face.

And now, here Eddie was, alone in a room in that janky little Derry Inn Motel that the Losers had overtaken. He didn’t like the thin flannel sheets or the worn, wood-paneled floors that creaked and yelped with every step he took. The thing he hated most, though, was having to share it all with someone-- someone who was currently elsewhere, probably downstairs having a drink. Eddie, in just a sweatshirt, socks, a t-shirt, and underwear, kicked his feet off the edge of the bed, leaning back to look up at the ceiling fan that shook almost worryingly. He shouldn’t have left New York, he shouldn’t have left Myra, she was going to have a fit if anything happened, and something was bound to happen, and he should really be taking a melatonin since he’s not asleep and it’s nearly 1am and he forgot his Zoloft in the medicine cabinet back home and what if he has a panic attack or something terrible happens or he reacts to the crappy complementary shampoo because of the parabens and he can’t function and--

“What a night, huh?”

Someone’s flopped down next to him on the bed, someone who smells of rum and coke and awful, terrible jokes.

“Say, everyone was asking about you downstairs. Wondered if you wanted to have a little drink or two, just to get your mind off the whole clown-doomsday thing,” Richie quips, turning his head to peruse Eddie’s profile. Eddie only glances at Richie, giving him a glimpse of two bored brown eyes that apparently think that rickety-ass ceiling fan is more interesting than his barely-buzzed best buddy.

“I’ll take a pass. Not quite in a drinking mood. Besides, there could be conflicts with my desmopressin, and…” That’s when Eddie realizes he’s rambling, and cuts himself off, sighing and sitting up.

“You know? I think risking shit like that is a big part of drinking. You can get alcohol poisoning easy-peasy. It’s all a part of the game of life, Eddie dearest.  _ L’appel du vide _ , and all that jazz. Hell, I’d rather be offed by a prescription cocktail than a homicidal clown,” Richie gave a shrug, watching Eddie shift his position on the bed. 

“Hm, I wonder which excruciatingly painful way of dying sounds better. A clown, or your insides slowly giving out until you’re in pure agony?” Eddie ran a hand through his hair, and stole a peek at the clock on the bedside table-- 1:22 A.M. Groaning, he nestled himself under the covers, accidentally nudging Richie in the forehead with his entire foot.

“Yeesh, Eds. Not into feet, but thanks for the offer.”

That’s the moment Eddie blanks on every word in the English language, his face wrinkling.

“Ew. I’d appreciate it if you never talked about people who enjoy that body part ever again.”

Richie holds up two fingers, still flat on his back. “Scout’s honor.”

They remain for a minute or so, until Richie springs up, kicking his suitcase open and grabbing a toothbrush and toothpaste stored in a ziploc bag.

“Be back soon, honey bunches. Don’t wait up for me to fall asleep.” With that, Richie is gone, the door shut.

For several minutes, it stays that way. Eddie plugs his phone in after scrolling through Flipboard, and staring at the ceiling some more, thoroughly bored. His hand lays against his thigh, and he lets out a quiet, listless breath. With nothing better to do, he dips his fingers under his briefs, finding the base of his cock and giving it a couple of gentle strokes. There’s a bottle of lube somewhere in the nightstand’s top drawer, and Eddie fumbles for it, uncapping it in one hand and leaving it open on the dresser top. He slicks his cock, base to tip, and clenches his jaw, keeping an eye on the door just in case Richie does come back. There’s nothing stopping him from yelling “Occupied!” as soon as he hears the knob turn.

So, Eddie does what any  _ repressed _ man does. He prefers to start slow-- just a couple of easy strokes to get himself feeling flushed. Good enough, he figures, and his cock stands against his hand, easing up further with every upward movement. Eddie throws his head back against the pillow as he thumbs the tip, teasing himself until he’s leaking precum and thrusting emptily into his own fist. 

Oh. Richie’s back, and he’s crawled into bed, which would be fine, except for the fact that Eddie’s got his hand down his pants. Richie looks confused, and Eddie’s as white as the blinds covering the window, and the moment that Richie realizes he just caught Eddie getting off is the moment Eddie blurts out a weak, airless “Hold on!”

Which is exactly what his hand is doing to his dick.   
“Oh, shit. Did I interrupt some Eddie time?”

And Eddie’s at a loss for words yet again. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, not quite sure how to tell Richie that he was boredly jacking off to nothing in particular. Which is, on the whole, a lie.

“Uh. Yeah?” he managed, squeezing his eyes shut. Well, Eddie  _ was _ lying. He’d been thinking of a video he’d stored in his spank bank, one about a man with thick-rimmed glasses fucking the sam hell out of a pretty, dark haired man with big, brown puppy-dog eyes.

“Gotcha. Hey, everyone’s gotta get one out once in a while. When my ex-girlfriend was in Vegas, I used to put on pay-per-view and—“

“Richie.” Eddie warns, his voice not quite firm and his breath not quite even. He wishes he could take his hand off his dick and pretend this never happened, like he never was this  _ repressed _ in the first place.

“I’m just sayin’. If you need a helping hand, so to speak…” Richie offers, his voice pitching up as he kicks his shoes off.

Not for the first time, Eddie short-circuits. Richie isn’t. He wasn’t. Eddie would never. He just couldn’t, he didn’t want to, but, oh, god. There was his knight in tortoiseshell frames, if ever a thing existed. 

“You good, Kaspbrak? Say, this is a pretty damn good deal. My ex-ex-girlfriend says I’ve got magic fingers.”

For a split second, Eddie thinks of how Richie’s fingers would feel inside him, and coughs conspicuously. 

“I’m married,” Eddie squeaks out, and Richie rolls his eyes. 

“That’s what you’re saying now, but wait until you see my nine incher.”

“Richie! You think this is some kind of joke? I hope you realize what kind of position you’re putting me in—“ Eddie’s eyes widen. He’d spoken too soon, with the worst choice of words possible.

“Looks like missionary right now. Or would you prefer a nice doggy? But, I mean, I personally would love to see your face while I’m screwing your brains out.”

“ _ Richie _ !” Mortified, Eddie’s voice gave out, and he buried half of his face in a rather lumpy, mothball-scented pillow. 

“Okay, okay, sorry. Let me try again.” Richie took a few steps back, and feigned discovering a  _ preoccupied _ Eddie.

“Oh, holy shit, Eds. Need a little help with your dick?”

Without lifting a finger, Eddie’s face somehow meets an invisible palm.

“It’s  _ Eddie _ , Rich,” he glowered, “and I don’t see why you’re so interested in helping me… In… In  _ assisting _ me with….”

“Helping you get your dick wet? Yeah, you know what they say about friends in need.”

“I don’t think that entails a situation like this,” Eddie points out, folding his arms.

“In that case, I’ll go back downstairs and—“ Richie starts, but Eddie holds a hand up.

“Hold on,” he says, his breathing shallow. “If you do this, then… Then what the hell does this make us? Friends with benefits?”

“I know what it’ll make  _ you _ ,” Richie hums as he leans on his elbows, “less stressed. Less anxious about whatever tomorrow holds. And, for the fact of the matter, it’ll definitely make you reconsider your marriage.”

_ As if Eddie wasn’t already doing that _ .

“You know, I can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.”

Eddie bites his lip, and he weighs the idea of Richie doing whatever the hell he wants to his poor, repressed ass. Wait. No. Not his  _ actual _ ass. Though, Richie’s inhuman hands squeezing his ass isn’t what Eddie would describe as an unwelcome thought.

“No kidding here, Edward. I’m 100% serious. This can be as no-homo-- or full-homo-- as you want it to be,” Richie swears, giving Eddie another faux Boy-Scout salute. Eddie rolls his eyes, shuts them, and leans against the pillow, the hand not Gorilla-glued to his dick reaching up to nervously run through his hair.

“Okay. You win, Tozier. Work whatever, uh,  _ dick magic _ you’ve got in your hands.”

And Richie almost beams, shifting to sit cross-legged on the bed. His hand hovers over the comforter, and Eddie gives him a look, not completely sold on the whole bro-handjob thing. Eddie’s backtracking, he knows it, but he can’t be expected to invest fully when Richie’s got that kid-in-a-candy-store look on his face. Hell, Eddie can’t take this seriously, and he throws the comforter off his body, leaving only the top sheet to cover his modesty.

“You really think it’s a good idea to be engaging in  _ adult activities _ when there’s a  _ clown _ wreaking havoc at this very moment?” 

“ _ Adult activities _ ? Jesus, Eds. We’re  _ fucking _ , not filing our W-2 forms.” Richie snorts, sloughing off that disgustingly tacky mustard-yellow button-up that Eddie wants to burn, desperately. “Besides, high stakes leads to more adrenaline, and you know how that goes. Why  _ wouldn’t _ we be fucking with a murder clown on the loose? Picture it: you’re straddling me, my dick halfway up your ass, and bam, just like  _ Friday the 13th _ , you get impaled for being horny--”

“Richie. For the love of god, just shut up.”

“And kiss you?” Richie interjects, and Eddie has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes for the nth time. He watches as Richie flops down on his side, skimming a couple of fingers over Eddie’s chest almost teasingly. Eddie doesn’t want to know how that makes him feel.

“We’re not kissing. We’re not fucking. Hell, we haven’t even reached second base. Or, wait, is kissing first base? I don’t know how those baseball metaphors work. Never got it.”

“Well, I can tell you we’re about to skip the first two bases and go straight to third,” Richie grins, and rests his hand on Eddie’s stomach, slowly inching the top sheet down and off his body. Eddie stiffens, closes his eyes, and before he can say anything in a half-hearted, inauthentic protest, Richie’s entire forearm has disappeared under the sheet, and there’s a hand splayed over his thigh, a few stray fingers dangerously close to his dick.

“Rich,” Eddie chokes out, and Richie raises an eyebrow, taking his hand from Eddie’s thigh. Eddie feels emptier somehow. “Wait, no. I…”

There’s a certain desperation in the way that Eddie looks at Richie, something that’s never been fully realized. Even now, even with how touch-starved Eddie’s been, nothing’s scratched that itch quite like seeing Richie and his dumb glasses and his stupid smile-- and nothing’s ever made him feel more of a contact high than Richie’s hand on his thigh, his thumb grazing the innermost parts. 

“You good, Eds?” Richie asks, almost immediately after the words leave his mouth. He takes his hand out from under Eddie’s shorts, and looks him right in those pretty brown eyes, needing an answer. Of course Richie’s a decent human being who wants Eddie’s explicit consent. An enthusiastic Eddie, however? Richie’s not expecting his wrist to be grabbed, and the heel of his palm to be pressed against the front of Eddie’s shorts.

“ _ C’mon _ , Rich,” he near-whimpers, needily rocking Richie’s hand back and forth in a weak attempt to get himself off. There’s a split second in which Richie considers caving to Eddie’s needs, but he stops himself, using the hand not currently pressed against Eddie’s dick to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

“Eddie, baby. Sweetheart. You gotta tell me yes or no.”   
“Then, yes,  _ fucking… _ Fucking yes,” He bucks up against Richie’s palm once again, and Richie delves his hand into Eddie’s boxers, Eddie’s hand still hanging onto his wrist. The rapid rise and fall of Eddie’s chest is either a product of lust, anxiety, or both, and as Richie starts a steady pace of strokes, Eddie tenses. Richie, ever calm, nestles his head in the crook of Eddie’s shoulder, lips dangerously close to Eddie’s neck.

“Relax,” he instructs, and Eddie is suddenly painfully aware of the hand wrapped firmly around his dick. “Think of something nice. I don’t know. Your wife.”

“Uh. No, thanks.” Eddie grimaces, and Richie raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, boy. Trouble in paradise?”

Tossing his head to the side, Eddie lets out a scoff. Luckily, Richie’s hand has stopped moving.

“Isn’t it weird how some people marry… How they… How they marry people who remind them of their parents,” he manages, looking at the comforter dejectedly. Richie gets the hint, and takes his hand off Eddie’s dick, opting for it to grasp his thigh instead. To Eddie, Richie’s hand is a firebrand.

“Hey, Eds. I’ve got just the solution for your problem. Look at me,” he coaxes, gently, Eddie unaware that his eyes were squeezed shut. Slowly, Eddie opens his eyes, taking more than a moment to focus on Richie’s eyes.

“Don’t stop looking at me. Whenever you think about what your wife’s gonna think, or what she’d do, I want you to look at me. She’s not here right now. And she isn’t gonna take care of you as well as I can.”

That came out more of a boast than anything, and with a thumb to the head of Eddie’s cock, Richie started his strokes all over again, smearing a bead of precum across the tip.

“Lube,” he murmurs, and dives his hand into the bedside drawer for a little bottle of Astroglide. Eddie wrinkles his nose, and Richie, not one to resist a suggestive glance, waggles his eyebrows.

“Hey, I mean, you gotta come prepared,” he shrugs, shoving the bottle between his thighs to warm it up. Not entirely knowing what to do, Eddie splays his fingers over Richie’s t-shirt, watching Richie’s fingers wander over his thighs. He traces along his inner thighs, and Eddie lets out a soft groan, the touch too light and soft to be anything  _ but _ teasing.

“ _ Oh _ ,” he whimpers, as Richie pushes his thighs apart. Eddie bucks his hips into nothing, and Richie cups his balls, giving them a few gentle squeezes. Faltering, Eddie digs his nails into Richie’s shirt, whines lingering behind his every breath.

“You want me to put my hands on you?” Richie asks, and Eddie nods frantically, eyes blown wide. There’s no hesitation as Richie pulls the lube from between his thighs, flips the cap open, and spreads it onto his hand. Eddie watches, his entire body shaking, and as soon as Richie closes a fist around his cock, he’s cursing under his breath and pulling Richie closer by the shirt.

“Rich,” he whines, and Richie mouths at Eddie’s neck, flicking his wrist in time with each of Eddie’s sharply drawn breaths.

“How’s that, Eds?” Richie asks, and Eddie twists his ankle underneath the sheets, sighing as Richie runs a hand up under his shirt, cupping one of his pecs and skimming his thumb over his nipple.

“Good,” Eddie chokes out, and Richie strokes him quicker. He stops for a second, just to catch his breath. Eddie’s head swims with thoughts of Richie above him, panting, telling him just how fucking perfect he is, how he’s pretty and sweet and gorgeous and everything he’s ever dreamed of. 

“Richie,” he calls out, his mouth hanging ajar, “wan’ you to finger me.”

That’s new. That’s  _ very _ new. Richie raises his eyebrows, keeping his lubed-up hand on Eddie’s cock. He gapes at Eddie, not entirely sure he’s believing what he’s hearing.

“You… You’re not fucking with me?” Richie stumbles through his words, looking across the room.

“Seriously, Eddie, your face isn’t gonna sprout red paint and a balloon isn’t gonna come out of your ass the moment I stick my fingers in it, right? You’re one-hundred percent serious?”

Eddie rolls his eyes at the terrible visual.

“For fuck’s sake, Tozier. Shut up about the clown and just finger me, dipshit.”

Richie blinks, twice, completely caught off guard. Eddie tilts his head forward, and Richie scrambles for the lube again, pouring it into his hand.

“Okay, okay, you’re gonna need to spread your legs a little bit for me,” he instructs, trying to talk Eddie through the process, “and you’re gonna have to relax. It’s gonna feel a little weird--”

“You think I’ve never stuck a finger up my ass?”

“How the hell would I know that?”

“Do I seem like I’m  _ not _ the type to finger myself?”

“Well, you don’t. But for starters, you’ve never had one of  _ my _ fingers up your ass.”

Eddie grumbles something unintelligible, and scoots his thighs apart some. Richie reaches between his legs, feeling over the cleft of his ass until he finds Eddie’s rim and runs his index finger over it. A shiver crosses Eddie’s whole body.

“Gonna give it to you one knuckle at a time, ‘kay?” Richie asks, and Eddie nods, exhaling as he feels Richie’s finger press in. It happens quicker than it seems, and soon enough, there’s a finger flexing in Eddie’s ass. He’s not complaining.

“Move, asshole,” Eddie snaps, and Richie plasters a grin on his face.

“See, I was gonna make a joke about moving and assholes, but I feel like that would be too on the nose.”

Eddie snorts.

“Yeah, you think?”

The expression on Eddie’s face is blown off in favor of a whine as soon as Richie moves his finger, the sensation not nearly enough.

“More,” he whimpers, and Richie draws one finger out, replacing it and adding a second. Richie’s fingers are a perfect burn in Eddie’s ass, and as soon as Richie starts moving both of his fingers in tandem, Eddie has to bite his lip to keep himself from stuttering out a loud, unashamed moan.

Eddie finds his face pressed into Richie’s chest, his hips involuntarily bucking up into his hand, his lips so embarrassingly quivering, a steady stream of “ _ fuck _ ,  _ fuck _ ,  _ fuck _ ” coming in soft whimpers from the back of his throat. It feels nice when he’s getting himself off, sure, but with Richie’s giant fucking fingers in his ass, Eddie feels as if he’s about to die and go to heaven.

“Feels fuckin’ amazing, oh,  _ Rich _ ,” Eddie gasps. Richie crooks his fingers, and Eddie positively  _ mewls _ into Richie's shoulder.

“Does it?” Richie asks, and Eddie’s too blissed to snark back at him. 

“My god,” he whines, feeling Richie nudge his neck and press a chaste kiss to the space just beneath his jaw, “ _ fuck me _ . Fuck me, fuck me, please, fuck me, Richie.”

Eddie’s fucking into his own fist, Richie’s fingers working him open so perfectly, and with each needy, breathy whimper from his lips, Richie seems to angle his fingers in just the right way. He grabs Richie by his shirt with both hands, pulling him between his spread thighs, and bridges the gap between them, one that’s been left open for far too long. Richie’s lips are softer than he expected— a bit dry, but still, soft. 

“What d’you mean by fuck you? Get you off, or—“

“All of it,” Eddie insists, between hungering kisses over Richie’s neck, “I wanna go all the way.”

“You… you sure, Eds?” Richie asks, just as soon as Eddie’s pulled away from kissing him. 

“Jesus fucking  _ Christ _ , Richie, there’s a damn good chance one of us is gonna get offed by a clown before we get to do this ever again. I’m not dying without getting a good lay in.” Eddie’s eyes are wild, his hair a bit messy, and he’s practically drooling. Richie’s looking at him like he’s the most beautiful thing on this earth.

“Say no more,” Richie murmurs, and presses a fevered kiss to Eddie’s lips. He tugs Eddie free of his pants, kissing down his thighs, and helps his shirt off. Eddie, feeling a bit exposed, curls into himself as Richie sheds his own shirt, looking over the smattering of dark, coarse hair on his chest, hair that leads to the sharp vee of his hips and disappears under the pair of boxer-briefs he’s wearing.

“Oh, baby,” Richie purrs, rising to meet Eddie for another kiss. Eddie knots his fingers in Richie’s hair, feeling his glasses knock against his forehead.

“Look how gorgeous you are. Fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?”

Eddie whines, all the way from the bottom of his throat, and presses another kiss to Richie’s lips. He reaches for Richie’s interested cock, giving it a rub over the soft cotton fabric.

“Enough with the flattery,” Eddie snaps, “get those off and fuck me.”

That’s enough for Richie to tug his boxers off and give his cock a couple strokes, and for Eddie to watch him, salivating, tugging on his own painfully stiff dick. Richie lays a kiss right between Eddie’s nipples, grabbing one of the pillows from next to Eddie’s head and clapping a hand on his thigh.

“Gonna put this under your ass,” he explains, and Eddie arches his back, allowing for Richie to position the pillow below him. Eddie runs his fingers over the coarse hair on Richie’s chest, pressing his lips together and watching as Richie opens the bedside drawer again, blindly fishing through the various toiletries inside.

“There should be a condom in here. Oh, got it.”

Rather unceremoniously, Richie tears the foil packet open and throws the wrapper on the floor, but Eddie grabs his wrist before he can move another muscle.

“Lemme put it on you,” Eddie says, his voice hushed and nearly uncertain. Richie nods, and  _ fuck _ , that’s the hottest thing. With one hand, Eddie strokes Richie’s cock, slowly unrolling the condom while not breaking eye contact. Richie groans, low in his throat, and as soon as Eddie’s finished, he grabs both of Eddie’s thighs, pushing them apart, and lays another kiss on his neck.

“You ready, pretty baby?” Richie asks, and Eddie nods furiously, wrapping a leg around his back, drawing him in closer. Eddie’s eyes are absolutely beautiful in the crappy motel lamplight, both golden and brown and welling up with lust. The blunt head of Richie’s cock nudges against Eddie’s ass. Eddie breathes deep, letting out a sigh, and Richie pushes in, feeling Eddie’s back arch off the bed.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ . Fuck, you weren’t kidding about being huge, were you? Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ .”

“I wasn’t. I never lie about what I’m packing,” Richie quips, and Eddie grabs his cheek, kissing him quiet.  _ Enough with the stupid jokes when you’re halfway up my ass _ , he wants to say. Richie kisses open-mouthed and dirty, something Eddie would’ve hated had it not been Richie kissing him. As Richie bottoms out inside Eddie, he lets out a huff, stomach-to-stomach with the pretty man below him.

“God, you’re perfect,” he mumbles, and Eddie lifts his chin for a kiss, which Richie gladly gives up. Eddie reaches for a fistful of Richie’s hair, pulling him down closer, as Richie braces himself, shifting and sending small shocks through Eddie’s already sensitive body.

“Rich,” Eddie breathes, looking up at Richie through his lashes. Richie runs a hand over Eddie’s stomach, taking his cock in his hand and giving it a few quick strokes. He kisses Eddie a few times, and Eddie whines into each kiss, the stimulation from Richie’s hand and the huge fucking cock in his ass and his own excitement all snowballing into one need to be fucked into the mattress.

“Move, or I’m gonna fuckin’ die,” Eddie snaps between breaths, watching Richie trail his hand down to the outer part of his thigh. He blinks, wets his lips, and lets out a breathy sigh. “Please?”

Richie can’t deny him that. Rolling his hips, he thrusts shallowly, working a slow rhythm. Eddie feels his breath catch in his throat, and strokes a thumb over the stubble on Richie’s cheek.

“M’so, I… I fuckin’,  _ God _ , Rich, I wan’a feel you in me for days.  _ Fuck _ .”

Eddie gasps, his breath lost between each thrust. Richie grabs his thighs, and Eddie drapes a leg around his back, the pillow positioning driving each thrust deeper and deeper. In Eddie's eyes, nothing can compare.

“M’gonna,  _ fuck _ , I’m so close, I’m gonna fuckin’,  _ oh _ ,” Eddie whines out, breathy and weak, just as he comes all over Richie’s chest. He sees stars as Richie fucks him through his orgasm, and the clench of his ass around Richie’s cock makes it all the more perfect.

“Baby, fuck,” Richie groans out, and Eddie feels him slow down, his eyes wide behind the rims of his glasses, which slip down his nose until he pushes them back up. Eddie panics for a moment, feeling Richie start to slowly pull out, but Eddie weakly bucks his hips up, needing more.

“Don’ stop, Rich,” he breathes, “Need it. Wan’a feel you fuck me, hard.”

There it is. Richie slams back into Eddie at his insistence, and Eddie feels tears prick at his eyes as a sob tears itself from his throat. There’s a hand holding Eddie’s waist, squeezing it, though his skin has gone completely numb. Richie’s thrusts are blunt and his groans are heady, and Eddie feels as if he’ll never be able to catch his breath. His brain feels fuzzy, the world is tingling around him, and his thighs shake, vibrating from his post-orgasmic bliss.

Eddie can barely hear Richie groan out a “ _ fuck _ ,  _ Eds _ ,” into his neck around the pounding of his own blood in his ears. He can barely control how he reached up to tangle his fingers in Richie’s messy hair, holding onto him for dear life as Richie ruts into him with a feverity he’s never experienced. 

He can make out a “I’m not gonna last, baby,” groaned between nips to his neck, and moments later, Eddie’s nearly blacked out, uncontrollable tears streaming down his face, feeling so empty as Richie eases out of his ass, ties off the condom, and presses a kiss to his sweaty forehead. For a moment, Eddie breathes, his chest heaving, and looks down at his still-shaking hands. There’s cum on his stomach, on Richie’s too, and someone’s wiping him down with a baby wiper. It’s probably Richie, but Eddie can’t move any part of his body; he’s positively floating.

“Hey, Spaghetti-o. You with me?” Richie asks, and gently squeezes Eddie’s hand.  _ Oh _ . He’s holding Eddie’s hand. Eddie doesn’t know why, but his whole body burns.

“Mmh,” Eddie says, not entirely able to tell what Richie’s saying.

“Oh, boy. Someone’s far gone, huh?” he murmurs, and positions Eddie so he’s curled into his chest. Richie strokes his fingers through Eddie’s hair, and lets a contented smile cross his face as Eddie hums softly, clearly enjoying the touch.

“Yeah.” Eddie’s voice comes out soft and gentle, and Richie kisses the top of his head.

“Let’s get some sleep.”

That sounds brilliant to Eddie, who wraps a deadweight arm around Richie’s chest, and kicks his legs enough that the sheets web together around his body.

“G’night, Rich. You do have magic hands,” he says, just as he drifts off.

There’s a part of Eddie that wants to say “it’s you, it’s always been you, Richie,” but he figures that’s more appropriate for a time where demon clowns don’t overshadow their lives.

Maybe he’ll tell him tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> i have like 400 reddie wips. hopefully they'll see the light of day sometime soon.  
anyways kudos and comments are always welcome!


End file.
